The launch was fast inside the boom, and the wave from her torpedo was rushing over her, carrying her down.
"Surrender," came a voice from above.
"Never! Swim for your lives, men," cried Cushing, and he sprang into the flowing stream.
Two or three bullets had gone through his clothing, but he was unhurt, and swam swiftly away, his men after him.
Only Cushing and one of the men got away. The others were captured, except one who was drowned. Boats were quickly out, a fire of logs was made on the wharf, which threw its light far out over the stream, but he reached the shore unseen, chilled to the bone and completely worn out.
A sentry was pacing on the wall of a fort over his head, men passed looking for him, but he managed to creep to the swamp nearby and hide in the mud and reeds.
There he lay till the break of day. Then he crawled on till he got into a cornfield nearby. Now for the first time he could stand up and walk. But just as he got to the other side of the field he came face to face with a man.
Cushing was not afraid. It was a black face. In those days no Union soldier was afraid of a black face. The slaves would do anything for "Massa Linkums' sojers." The young lieutenant was almost as black as the slave after his long crawl through the mud.
Cushing told him who he was, and sent him into the town for news, waiting in the cornfield for his return. After an hour the messenger came back. His face was smiling with delight.
"Good news, Massa," he said. "De big iron ship's gone to de bottom suah. Folks dar say she'll neber git up agin."